


For You, Anything

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Language, Loss of certain body parts, M/M, Prompt Fill, Slash, Steter Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>Fic Request from Tumblr --> <em>Anonymous</em> <em>said:</em> <em>TW</em> <em>Prompt</em> <em>–</em> <em>Steter</em> <em>+</em> <em>sacrifice</em></strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	For You, Anything

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Teen Wolf.**
> 
> **I kinda hate the title, but I couldn't think of a good one.**

 

 

“There’s nothing I can do,” Deaton concludes with grim finality as he steps back from Peter’s prone form on the examination table.

 

Derek’s eyebrows scrunch together even further into a brooding scowl but he doesn't make any desperate demands for the vet to try again, try something else, _keep_ _trying_.

 

Scott looks about the same. A little crestfallen, a little bleak, but in the end, Peter’s never been as important as the other members of the McCall Pack.

 

It’s Stiles who pushes, one hand curled around Peter’s wrist in a white-knuckled grip. “C’mon Doc, there must be something you can do! He was hit by magic, so whip up some of your own spellwork and fix this!”

 

Deaton only shakes his head. “He was hit by _Fae_ magic. That’s not something even I can undo. It’s slowly shutting down his body, and the only thing that could possibly stop that would be the same kind of magic that’s harming him.”

 

“So, fae magic,” Stiles says flatly. “Okay, then we’ll just find a Faerie and-”

 

“It’s unwise to bargain with the Fae, Stiles,” Deaton interjects sharply. “And it _will_ be a bargain. The Fae are not in the habit of doing things for free, especially not for species outside of their own.”

 

“It was one of _their_ people gone rogue that put Peter in this state in the first place!” Stiles spits out. “ _They_ owe _us_!”

 

“Then they might be convinced to lower the price,” Deaton continues in that total zen tone of voice that makes Stiles want to commit acts of violence. “They didn't set the rogue Faerie on anybody on purpose; you simply stumbled on each other in the forest. It was bad luck. The rogue was already exiled from the Unseelie Court, so in their eyes, they owe us nothing.”

 

Stiles grits his teeth, mind racing. If Peter wasn't a werewolf, not to mention already dying anyway, the hold Stiles has on him probably would've broken his wrist by now.

 

He forces himself to loosen his fingers all the same.

 

“Then we can trade them something,” Stiles starts compiling a list of everything magical beings like the Fae might want.

 

“No!” This time, it’s Scott who jumps in with an interruption, looking alarmed even as Stiles rounds on him. “Dude, you heard Dr. Deaton – bargaining with the Fae is a bad idea, and we don’t need to invite more trouble. What if something goes wrong and the Faeries decide to attack us or something? We don’t know the first thing about fighting Faeries!”

 

“So we’re just gonna let Peter die?” Stiles snaps back, glare switching between Scott and Derek. Scott looks defensive but resolute. Derek won’t meet his eyes. “He’s Pack! Since when have we just given up on one of our own because the solution is dangerous?”

 

Scott grimaces but his jaw sets in that obstinate line that makes Stiles want to punch him. “I have to think of the Pack-”

 

“Peter _is_ Pack!”

 

“He’s _Peter_ ,” Scott emphasizes almost pleadingly like he’s trying to get Stiles to see reason. “And you saw what one rogue Faerie did to the Pack; half of us are still recovering, Liam’s only just woken up, Kira’s gonna have scars! Who knows what they’d ask in return for healing Peter, and if we refuse and they get angry, well, we can’t take on all of them.”

 

Stiles stares in disbelief. “Scott, he’s gonna _die_!”

 

It’s Derek who answers him, shoulders hunched, features drawn with resignation. “It’s too risky,” He agrees with a sideways glance at Scott. Both of them look tired and regretful, but apparently not regretful enough to change their mind about this. “It’s Peter’s life on the line, so what if the Fae decide to ask for a life in return? It would mean one of us would have to die anyway.”

 

“So better Peter than one of the rest of us?” Stiles bites out, inwardly seething.

 

Derek’s expression tightens, and he looks away again. Scott shrugs helplessly, at a loss for any words besides a damning _yes_.

 

Stiles grits his teeth and turns back to Peter, listening to each shallow breath rattling in the werewolf’s lungs, studying the pain creasing his steadily paling face, tracing the black lines highlighting his veins.

 

“I'm staying here,” Stiles says scathingly, voice brooking no arguments.

 

Deaton doesn't fight him on it, already retreating for the door. Scott and Derek follow; they know how to pick their battles when it comes to Stiles.

 

Stiles is alone with Peter within minutes, free to take one of the werewolf’s cold hands in his own.

 

They're not a... _thing_ , not quite yet, but there’s been flirting and teasing, research debates and not-dates, private smiles and lingering touches, automatic two coffees at pack meetings and Peter’s advice on the college choices that Stiles has been going through recently, ones where – Stiles secretly confirms on the sly – there are spacious apartments built near each campus’ dorms.

 

His hands tighten around Peter’s. When he wants something, he’s not in the habit of giving it up before he even gets it. He’s not about to give this up.

 

Fortunately, he’s always been good at negotiation.

 

* * *

 

 

“You have pretty eyes,” One of the three Faeries in the clearing – the leader of the three – croons.

 

They demanded his Spark first, his soul (too high a price even without the whole rogue Faerie matter), then his life, then his blood, but Stiles has done his research – quick but thorough in the meagre hours he’s been able to spare as Peter’s clock ticks towards its doom – and he knows what to say and how to say it to twist the whole rogue Faerie issue around to suit his own needs and cut the cost down to as low as he can possibly make it.

 

(A niggling voice at the back of his head tells him that he’d be perfectly willing to pay a price as high as his own soul in exchange for Peter’s life, and on some level, that terrifies him, but he won’t have to pay that today so the point is moot.)

 

They've even attempted to barter for his love in return for saving Peter, but – even while a blush crawls up his neck – he told the Fae where to shove their tricks (very politely) since the entire reason he’s doing this is because he sortofmaybepossiblyisbeginningto love Peter, and he isn’t about to give up the very thing he’s fighting for.

 

They looked amused when he said as much. He supposes that’s better than anger but it still makes him want to go with the ‘kill them all’ option instead of diplomacy.

 

They want his eyes now. He thinks that may be worse than taking his hearing or even his voice. Which is probably why they want them; the Fae seem to have a knack for ranking the significance of what he has to offer, and Stiles has always depended on his observational skills to stay ten steps ahead of everyone else. Not the only thing he depends on of course, but his sight is still an important part of his skill set, for research, for fighting the latest Big Bad, for school, for _navigation_ -

 

Nevertheless, it’s the best deal he’s been given so far, and if it’s for Peter’s continued existence, then Stiles can deal with blindness.

 

When a long-nailed hand that feels like the chill of winter’s first frost against his skin jerks his chin up, Stiles barely manages to stop himself from lashing out.

 

“The bronze of our armour and the glitter of our gold,” The Faerie examining his eyes muses, and Stiles can’t help narrowing his eyes with guarded hostility.

 

The Faerie just laughs. “A human with the look of a Fae warrior’s spirit.” She nods decisively, letting him go. “Yes, I do like your eyes, and I would accept them as a suitable trade for the life of your Love. This is my final offer; what say you, Emissary?”

 

Stiles takes a breath. In his pocket, his phone buzzes with the fifteenth incoming text since he left the clinic in search of a cure, one of the Pack again trying to contact him about Peter. The last message he read was, _:If u want to say goodbye, come now.:_

 

He’s out of time. _Peter’s_ out of time.

 

“I accept,” Stiles declares, strong and certain. He barrels on before the lead Faerie can do more than open her mouth to seal the deal. “But I want an oath from you. And of course, I’ll do the same. But no deal until we do. I’ll swear it by my name, and you’ll by yours.”

 

And when he produces a silver bowl and a knife, the Faeries all grin with a mix of bloodthirsty lethality and genuine approval.

 

“Very well, Emissary,” The leader purrs, picking up the blade and cutting her palm with it before letting the golden liquid drip into the bowl. “By my Name, so I Swear – I am Sidra, High Guard Commander of the Unseelie Court, and for the eyes that have been Promised to me, I will heal the werewolf known as Peter Hale. Should I renege on this Blood Oath, let my Life be forfeit.”

 

Magic thrums like a taut rope in the air even as Stiles copies the ritual and echoes the Oath, never taking his eyes off the Faerie even as his own blood splashes into the bowl. “By my Name, so I Swear – I am Genim Stilinski, Emissary of the McCall Pack, and for the restoration of Peter Hale’s full health that has been Promised to me, I freely give my eyes in return. Should I renege on this Blood Oath, let my Life be forfeit.”

 

Magic snaps and swirls around them, vibrating the very air itself as the Oath settles and locks both parties into its clutches, and the Faerie standing before him smiles then, wide and cunning and terrible.

 

But before Stiles can say another word, a red-hot stab of agony explodes behind his eyes, and the forest around him blurs in shades of green and brown even as he falls to the sound of strident laughter ringing in his ears.

 

And right before oblivion sweeps him away in a haze of pain and darkness, a single terrifying realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning:

_Did they mean my eyes as in sight or my eyes as in **eyes**?_

 

And then he knows no more.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time he wakes up after his deal with the Fae, it’s to inhuman snarls and shouting voices and a world of nothing, and he instinctively panics until something pricks the side of his neck and forces him under once again.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time he wakes up, it’s still to a world of nothing, but everything’s quiet around him now, a deafening sort of silence that makes him uneasy.

 

He’s slow to return to full consciousness, and he registers certain things one by one, like how he has something wrapped around his head, over his eyes, and how the bed underneath him is soft and familiar, the blankets on top warm and comfortable, and how there are birds chirping in the distance somewhere on his far right but he can’t for the life of him glimpse any sort of sunlight through his eyelids.

 

After that, it all comes rushing back to him, the Fae, the bargain, _Peter_ -

 

Stiles shoots upright, reeling from a bout of light-headedness but he shoves it aside in favour of tripping out of bed – _his_ bed, which means his room – instead, groping blindly for something to hold onto even as he stumbles in the general direction of where he knows the door to be.

 

He doesn't get farther than a few steps before the door bursts open with a bang, and he flinches back on reflex because the sound was so damn _loud_.

 

A long tension-filled silence ensues. Stiles has no idea who the hell is standing in the doorway, and he feels beyond disoriented even as his hand finally manages to find the edge of his desk. At least he’s facing the right direction.

 

“...Dad?” He ventures first, but no, his dad would probably have hugged him by now, that or ripped him a new one for this latest fiasco. God, Stiles didn't even tell anyone about what he was going to do before doing it, mostly because he knew that they would've stopped him.

 

“Scott?” He guesses next, apprehension fuelling his irritation. “Dude, _obviously_ , I don’t know who you are so if you could _speak up_ and tell me what the fuck happened to Peter, I’d appreciate it. If that Faerie didn't heal him, I'm gonna hunt the lot of them down and burn their entire Court to the ground.”

 

More silence. Stiles grits his teeth in agitation and takes a shuffling step forward, only to swear when his foot catches on- the corner of a textbook? The leg of his desk chair? – and makes him lurch forward face first.

 

He never hits the ground. One second, he’s falling, the next, hands have caught him by the shoulders before – almost tentatively – wrapping around him entirely, and this close, Stiles would know that cool, earthy scent anywhere.

 

He doesn't waste any time. Squirming until his hands are free, Stiles clumsily pats at Peter’s shoulders before reaching further up to graze his fingers along the werewolf’s jawline and cheekbones. “Are you- Did the Faerie heal you? Completely? No after-effects? No strings attached?” He pauses. “Did she take your _voice_? _Why aren’t you talking?_ ”

 

“You're an idiot.”

 

Stiles freezes for all of two seconds before slumping with relief against the solid warmth in front of him, so very, very alive again. “Good to see you're well enough to insult me at least.”

 

Peter’s left arm is an iron band around Stiles’ back. The other disappears for a moment before Stiles feels a feather-light touch at the corner of his right eye.

 

He recoils, just a little.

 

For a minute, neither of them moves. Peter doesn't let him go, but he doesn't try to go near Stiles’ eyes again either. Instead, his free hand slips around to clasp the back of Stiles’ neck.

 

“...I think-” Stiles swallows hard, head dropping to rest against Peter’s shoulders. “I think I made a mistake.”

 

Peter stiffens. His voice is deliberately light. “I’d have to agree.”

 

Stiles thumps a fist against the werewolf’s chest. “Not like that, you moron. Saving you wasn't a mistake. I meant-” He stops again, curling fingers into the fabric of Peter’s shirt. “My eyes are gone, aren’t they? Not just my sight? She took my eyes?”

 

The hand at his neck tightens briefly. “...Yes.”

 

Stiles feels... mostly numb. Numb is good because that means he isn’t gonna lose his shit.

 

“Well crap,” He pulls away from Peter, releasing a hollow mockery of a laugh as he steps back, fumbling for the back of his chair. He almost misses before he shifts his hand and gets a firmer grasp on it. “She got a two-for-one deal; I haven’t been duped that badly in years.” He turns, elbow knocking into one of his bookshelves. What sounds like a book hits the carpet with a muffled thud. He ignores it. Something hysterical is simmering low in his gut. He has _eye sockets_ \- “Am I ugly now? My dashing good looks are gone, aren’t they? They have to be; I'm like, part-ghoul now, and part-ghoul is so not attractive. But hey! At least I'm all set for Halloween now! I’ll be the most frightening thing out there-”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter says, cutting off Stiles’ increasingly frenzied babble, and then he’s being lifted into the air, an arm around his back again, another hooked under his knees, and before he can really register it all, he’s back in bed and under the blankets again, except this time, Peter’s folded around him like an especially warm cocoon, and he’s manoeuvred Stiles so that Peter’s soothing heartbeat thumps against his ear.

 

For a long while, Stiles just focuses on breathing. A panic attack isn’t going to help him here; he’s better off cataloguing all the things in his life that will have to be rearranged to accommodate his new... debilitation.

 

Still, the first thing he says, or mumbles really, into Peter’s chest is, “I don’t regret it,” and his pulse is as steady as a rock.

 

Peter huffs a breath from somewhere above him. Fingers card through his hair. “And that’s the worst thing of all.”

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Wouldn't it be worse if I _did_ regret it?”

 

“If you regretted it,” Peter counters in purposely neutral tones. “Then at the very least, I’d know that you still have a modicum of good sense and won’t be inclined to do something so recklessly _stupid_ and _pointless_ ever again.”

 

Stiles rears back, shoving an elbow underneath him as he stares blindly at where Peter’s voice came from. “Pointless? You were gonna _die_ , and nobody was doing anything about it! My magic couldn't do shit so we took you to Deaton, but he was as frustratingly _useless_ as usual, and Derek and Scott were both ready to just let you die as soon as Deaton implied that it was the best option for everyone around! Well screw them! You think I’d just let that happen? My eyes for your life – that’s a pretty good deal all things considered so you can take your ungrateful bullshit and stick it where the sun doesn't shine!”

 

He’s abruptly furious, and he doesn't know where it came from. All he knows is that he’s too livid to stay in bed like some crippled invalid (which, _fuck_ , he sort of is now, isn’t he?), plus he needs to pee, and he wants to brush his teeth and take a shower and maybe throw on some fresh clothes as well, and he’s going to do it _by himself_.

 

He levers himself off the bed, sensing more than hearing Peter sit up and lean towards him, and all that does is make him hiss out a caustic, “I don’t need your help!”

 

He staggers to his feet, picturing his bedroom in his mind’s eye, and then he heads for the bathroom with as much confidence as he can muster. He only collides with something – the doorframe – once, and then there’s cold tile under his feet, and a barrier of wood behind him.

 

It takes a pathetic one or two minutes to empty his bladder just to be certain that he won’t make a mess, and then he almost brains himself against the sink when he trips over the stool.

 

At least brushing his teeth is easy; even when he still had his eyes, there were mornings when he didn't open them until he was halfway through his daily routine anyway.

 

And then he has to work the shower, and that’s almost as easy as brushing his teeth, if only because the shampoo and soap are positioned in the same spots that he always leaves them in, but he also has to be careful to keep the water from soaking into the bandages around his eyes (or eye sockets now, he supposes), and that’s a chore and a half in and of itself.

 

After that, it occurs to him that he has no clean clothes to change into, but then – as if on cue – there’s a knock at the door, and while a part of Stiles still sort of wants to scream or kick something really hard, he grudgingly opens the door in the end after securing a towel around his waist.

 

“I thought I said I didn't need your help,” Stiles grumbles sullenly even as he accepts the neat stack of clothes placed into his hands. They feel like one of his old baggy t-shirts and pajama pants, with a pair of boxers on top.

 

“Well, it looks like you're getting it anyway,” Comes the cool, clinical reply. “So if I were you, I’d get used to it quickly.”

 

Stiles bristles at that disinterested, almost patronizing tone. He refuses to acknowledge the ball of hurt sitting heavily in the pit of his stomach. “Look, if you don’t wanna be here, you can leave, you're not obligated to stay-”

 

“ _Yes I am!_ ” Peter snarls, and Stiles jumps from the sudden rise in volume. He hears the werewolf exhale in a short whoosh of aggravation, and he can’t help twitching when hands come up to cradle his face, but he stays still and waits the older man out.

 

“You didn't have to do this, Stiles,” Peter says at last, and he’s lost that detached tone of voice from before, leaving something broken in its place. Stiles’ clothes tumble to the floor, forgotten.

 

_Oh._

 

Without a word, Stiles steps forward and slides his arms around Peter. This time, it doesn't surprise him when the werewolf pulls him close and buries his face in Stiles’ neck, breathing him in like he’s oxygen.

 

“Yes I did,” Stiles tells him softly. “I can’t- I don’t want to lose you.” He stalls for a few seconds. “But I meant it, you know. You're not obligated to stay just because I did this. It was my choice, and I’d do it all over again if I had to, but it wasn't something you pushed me into or anything. I can- I can see how this might be a deal-breaker for you because, well, there are things I won’t be able to do anymore, and things I’ll have to learn or relearn or whatever, and it’s gonna take time, and I’ll probably be a brat about it sometimes, and seriously, going out for dinner with my new looks is gonna be a bitch, so if that’s- if that’s something you don’t want to cope with, I’d- I’d understand-”

 

“I’ve already bought books on Braille,” Peter cuts in, pulling back only far enough to – probably – look at Stiles again. “And I’ve begun learning it while you were still out; I can help you get started. There were also several digital talking book players that looked useful so I bought them all, and there’s a bagful of clocks and timers and watches downstairs, and I’ve been looking at some of those cell phones that read text messages out loud but I figured you’d want to pick one out yourself. I can describe them to you. And I thought you probably wouldn't want a cane so I didn't buy one of those, but if you do, I can get it, or if you want a guide dog, I can get one of those too. I’ve also looked into schooling options just in case you're not ready to move away and live on campus but still want to start college, so we can go through those later as well.”

 

He stops, hands clenching and unclenching around Stiles’ biceps. “...I’m not going anywhere.”

 

His words come out harshly but there’s also a brutal sort of honesty underscoring them that Stiles has never heard before.

 

“I wasn't planning on it even before all this happened,” Peter continues almost angrily. “You think I’d take off now just because you're blind? Just because the Fae-” Stiles is certain that Peter’s eyes are glowing a violent blue what with how much hatred is colouring that single word. “-took your eyes? We can get you sunglasses or something, or not if you don’t want to hide them, and if anybody so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll rip their throats out.”

 

Despite the situation, and if Stiles still had eyes, he’d roll them so hard because that is just classic Peter. In fact, he has to wonder-

 

“What exactly happened after...?” Stiles gestures at his own face.

 

An animalistic growl rumbles in Peter’s chest like a distant thunderstorm. “The Faerie healed me, as promised. I heard the Pack retrieved you from the forest and brought you to the hospital. When I woke up and discovered what had happened...” He pauses again, and Stiles wishes he could see.

 

“Derek and Scott prevented me from going after the Fae,” Peter finally grounds out, voice low and enraged.

 

Stiles’ heart stutters with horror, and Peter heaves a sigh before pressing a reassuring hand to his cheek. “I didn't. Derek said something about not wanting you to sneak off and try to outdo me when you woke up and found out I was missing a limb or dead.”

 

Stiles snorts. He’s still kind of pissed off at Derek but the guy apparently knows him well enough to predict that outcome.

 

“I would've kicked your ass if you had gone off and made a deal for my eyes,” Stiles says mulishly. “So it’s a good thing you didn’t.”

 

“And explain to me how it would've been any different than what you've done for me?”

 

“Your life was on the line,” Stiles says, and jeez, that’s the umpteenth time he’s said it; is it so hard to understand? “I can handle having no eyes,” His jaw works for a moment before he forges on with reckless bravery, “But I don’t think I could've handled having no you.”

 

He’s certain Peter stops breathing for a second.

 

“It’s your fault,” Stiles accuses even as he feels his ears heat up with embarrassment. “You've been creeping on me for years; you can’t expect me not to- _mmph-_ ”

 

Peter shuts him up with a well-placed kiss. Their first kiss. In the doorway of Stiles’ bathroom, with Stiles as blind as a bat and wearing nothing but a towel.

 

There’s really nothing he can do except melt into Peter and kiss right back.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’ dad hugs him to death, yells at him, and then hugs him some more. Then he says – to both Stiles _and_ Peter – that Peter’s a lucky bastard and if the werewolf ever breaks Stiles’ heart, he won’t rest until Peter Hale is six feet under for _good_.

 

Stiles kind of really loves his dad. He’s pretty sure it’s a foregone conclusion that he loves Peter too, especially when his new werewolf boyfriend tells the Sheriff point-blank that he has no intention of ever doing anything that will even come close to breaking Stiles’ heart, and if he does, he’ll hand over the wolfsbane bullets himself.

 

Of course, Peter’s quota of romantic honesty runs out when it comes to the Pack. His words drip condescendence whenever Derek and Scott and a few of the others confront him about what he really wants from Stiles, and he never gives them a straight answer. Apparently, Peter hasn't forgiven them at all for leaving Stiles to challenge the Fae alone, because _honestly, Scott, use that brain of yours for once; what did you expect Stiles would do? Throw in the towel like the rest of you did?_ and _I certainly mean more to him than I do to you, dear nephew. Did you really think he would've given up on me?_

 

Peter always sounds so smug too when he pronounces things like that, like he’s never not known how much Stiles cares for him, and only Stiles picks up on the subtle thread of awe that accompanies each word whenever Peter flaunts it to the Pack.

 

Stiles hasn't completely forgiven them either for giving up on Peter even though the entire Pack knows that the two of them have grown much closer lately, so he lets Peter take his snide jabs at them when they see each other, which isn’t often these days because the eldest Beta is always at Stiles’ side now, and he’s the only one who doesn't tiptoe around him because of his lost eyes. The rest of the Pack can’t seem to stop the figurative tiptoeing, and it grates on Stiles’ nerves until he can’t stand it anymore, and he ends up making excuses to send them home.

 

Peter doesn't say it but Stiles knows that he’s viciously satisfied about the whole situation.

 

Well, except for the nonexistent eyes bit. On occasion, at night, curled up in the same bed, Peter will trace Stiles’ features with gentle fingers until Stiles is teetering on the brink of sleep, and then he’ll murmur an apology into Stiles’ hair just as Stiles nods off into dreamland.

 

Mornings aren’t fun either, especially at the beginning when Stiles would wake up and forget he’s blind, and with nothing but darkness all around him, not to mention the bandages tied around his head that he’s so far refused to take off aside from getting them changed, he tends to panic for at least several minutes before Peter can coax him back to reality.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, Stiles gets so frustrated with all the things he can’t do anymore (he couldn’t even pick out his own clothes at first before Peter reorganized his closet and Stiles memorized the placement of every last shirt and sock) that he blows up at Peter or just generally throws something very close to a tantrum. When he truly realizes that he can no longer do research the good old-fashioned way, will probably have to depend on computers talking out loud or Peter going through the motions for him, he throws a mug at the nearest wall that Peter later has to clean up for him while Stiles locks himself in his room and ignores his lover and even his father for a day and a half.

 

Other times, mostly after Stiles has a particularly bad morning, Peter’s the one who has to disappear for a while. That one time Stiles tries to go downstairs by himself while Peter is occupied with bringing in the groceries, he almost breaks his neck in the process when he inevitably misses a step and falls the rest of the way, which results in a shouting match between the two of them, and ends with Peter storming out of the house to cool his head.

 

* * *

 

 

“You don’t have to stay,” Stiles says, subdued and miserable after the first time Peter left for two days before returning. “If it’s guilt or something, you don’t have to stay for that.”

 

Peter only scoffs from where he’s sitting beside Stiles on the top porch step. Their thighs aren’t quite touching but the werewolf’s close enough for Stiles to feel his body heat.

 

“Trust me, Stiles, if I didn't want to be here, no force on earth could keep me here. Certainly not _guilt_. I'm plenty familiar with that emotion to not let it affect my judgement.” He stirs, and his leg presses against Stiles’ in an unspoken promise. “Sometimes, I just need some space. Just like you do. But you’ll come back out to face the world again, and I’ll come back to face your next impulsively imbecilic stunt, and we’ll make it work.”

 

His voice is adamant and firm with resolve, leaving zero room for doubt, and Stiles can’t help but believe him.

 

Still, he punches Peter in the arm for sticking in that impulsively imbecilic part because he isn’t _that_ bad. Peter pretends it hurts and demands a kiss as compensation.

 

Stiles indulges him and they spend the better part of five minutes making out on the back porch before Peter hauls him inside for several hours of glorious makeup sex.

 

Stiles doesn't bring up Peter leaving ever again.

 

* * *

 

 

So sometimes, Peter’s goading encouragement teeters too far into the realm of actual mockery, which pushes Stiles into shutting himself away in his room and refusing everyone entry. Other times, when Stiles goes too far in taking his bad mood out on Peter, the werewolf snarls right back at him, fangs and all by the sound of it even though he never lays a hand on Stiles, and then he’ll walk out the door without another word. Stiles knows him well enough to picture the man’s shoulders set in a rigid line, and his eyes flashing Beta blue.

 

But Stiles always emerges from his self-exile again, and Peter always comes back from who-knows-where, and they apologize, and they move on.

 

And it’s not always as tough as that, especially as time passes and they learn to talk things out instead of arguing or leaving. Stiles gets Braille down perfectly within two months, and Peter helps him sort out what online classes he wants to take, and what his options are for those courses when he finally accepts his admittance into Stanford.

 

And when Peter drags him out on a lunch date, Stiles wears a pair of visor sunglasses, and they have fun despite the odd looks they get when Stiles doesn't take them off even inside the restaurant.

 

(“I can rip their throats out for you. Just say the word.”

 

“ _No,_ Peter. Don’t be a psychopath.”)

 

They go for walks too, especially since Stiles refuses to laze around the house with no exercise, and he ends up half-joking about how he doesn't need a seeing-eye dog because he already has Peter. Peter accepts this with relatively good grace.

 

(“I'm better than any old mutt anyway.”

 

“Uh-huh, old _man’s_ definitely an upgrade from plain old mutt.”

 

“You're not half as funny as you think you are, you little _brat_.”)

 

It takes five months before Stiles is comfortable with leaving his (lack of) eyes uncovered for longer periods of time, and even then, only in private when it’s just him and Peter.

 

(Rumours of Stiles getting into a horrible accident and losing his eyes eventually gets out, and the one time some kid is stupid enough to try to trip Stiles up and knock his sunglasses off for a photo, Peter crushes the guy’s phone with one hand before calmly handing it back with a smile that threatens murder. Two days later, Peter reads the paper out loud to Stiles as usual, and Stiles isn’t so clueless as to miss the note of vindictive satisfaction in his lover’s voice as Peter tells him of the half dozen animal corpses found hanging outside a high school student’s bedroom window. This goes on for two weeks straight with no leads (Stiles is pretty sure his dad isn’t trying very hard to begin with) until said student and his family flees Beacon Hills for good.

 

Stiles may or may not have rewarded this with several enthusiastic blowjobs that leaves Peter completely blissed out. The way he figures it is, at least Peter didn't kill the guy, and good behaviour should be encouraged.)

 

He moves into Peter’s apartment half a year after that, although even before that, he’s already been ‘forgetting’ random articles of clothing and other belongings there whenever he stays over, and by the time he officially moves in, Peter’s already cleared up half the closet space for him, as well as given him a key.

 

(“You know I can’t really use it, right? You always have to unlock the door for me anyway.”

 

“Well, it’s yours. If you don’t want it, you can give it back.”

 

“I didn’t say that! You've given it to me now so I'm keeping it. No take-backs.”

 

“...Good.”)

 

The Pack isn’t exactly ecstatic with how close they've become but they've more or less learned to live with it, especially once it becomes clear that their opinion means less than nothing to Stiles and Peter.

 

They make it work, and more often than not, they're both happy. And even on his worst days, when phantom pains bother him and he’s frustrated with absolutely everything in the world and Peter is being an ass, not once does Stiles ever regret his sacrifice.

 

 

**[End]**

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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